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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536915">Stay With Me (My Blood)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberrsoot/pseuds/cyberrsoot'>cyberrsoot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Death, Disease, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, Plague, Sad Ending, The Black Death, Tragedy, no beta we die like men, yersinia pestis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:21:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,891</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberrsoot/pseuds/cyberrsoot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I lost a piece of my soul that night, Journal, and I do not believe I shall ever gain it back.”</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Stay With Me (My Blood)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Sept. 30th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Journal,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wait no- that sounds much too formal. But why shall I begin a passage informally? Shall I even begin with a greeting? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Let's try again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Good evening, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No. I am not required to open the passage in a formal welcome. I will not greet a stack of paper and leather, for it is incapable of receiving such a greeting or responding as such. So I shall not open in greeting anymore. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This day is the last sunrise of September, and my father, Phil, has gifted me this small, brown book. He said it is a journal, made to write down my thoughts and convictions. I have never owned a journal before, nor have I ever had the notion to write my thoughts down, however, if it makes Phil happy, I shall use it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had woken early today, the sun had barely risen, to see Phil standing at the foot of my bed holding the book. It was wrapped in brown cloth, and he said writing in this should be good for me for when he is not at the house. However, I am skeptical. How should a lifeless item such as this provide me with the security that only my father could give? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Regardless of my skepticism, I am writing anyway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have now been called to the table for dinnertime by Phil. I am grateful for this, as I was just beginning to run out of topics to write about. I am sure as time goes on, I will get better at this and I will be able to stretch on my passage to more than a measly half a page of paper. But for now, farewell, Journal. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oct. 10th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Today was, unfortunately, bad. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy, like the young devil he is, was very loud all throughout the day which gave me an unpleasant migraine. At my attempt to confide in my father, he simply told me to ignore him and go on with my day. But I could not possibly read The Travels of Marco Polo by Rustichello de Pisa with Tommy and his companion, Tubbo, making a ruckus, so I attempted to leave the house and hide in the cornfields. However, my father had asked that I stay in the house as he had to go to work. As the eldest (by one minute), it certainly is frustrating, because Phil treats me as the only older sibling. He could have had Wilbur watch Tommy, but alas, it is always myself. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> At each interval in which I had requested Tommy's silence, he refused, angering me further. The pain in my head had felt as if God had taken me to the fiery pits of hell, and burned me for all my sins. Eventually, I had threatened Tommy with my sword, saying if he did not settle down then I would remove his tongue so that he shall never speak again, and he silenced himself. Tubbo fears me now, but I do not care what his opinion is of me. Neither of the children told Phil about the interaction, to my luck. Phil would not be pleased if he discovered that I had threatened his youngest son so viciously. I would never lay the blade of my sword anywhere near Tommy, but I was desperate for peace and quiet and I was determined to get it at any cost. My head is still in pain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> After the interaction, Wilbur had prepared dinner for us and Tubbo went home. We then sat and ate in silence. That was, of course, until Phil returned. Phil was unhappy, which we all sensed, so we continued our silence as Phil prepared himself a bowl of Wilbur's soup. After dinner, Phil wordlessly retired to his bedroom. It was quite unusual for Phil to be so quiet during dinner, which made us anxious. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur offered to go speak to Phil, to which I quickly denied. I had said that Phil was to be left alone until he was ready to emerge. However, he has not yet left his room and it is past eleven. I will ask Phil if he is alright in the morning. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oct. 11th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phil informed us today that we are no longer permitted to leave the house until he says we may. When Wilbur inquired as to why, Phil explained that there was a disease going around, yersinia pestis, which was brought to England from a ship that crossed the seas. But I am not worried about this disease, Journal. Every disease that had come to Europe in the past has easily come and gone, as will this disease, in all likelihood. However, I will obey Phil's orders until the time comes that we could leave our homes again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy did not take well to this news, and he had immediately objected, saying, "But Phil, I ought to be able to see Tubbo! How shall I see him if I am home-bound?"  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phil had simply shaken his head and rested his hand on Tommy's shoulder, answering, "You shall see Tubbo again, but not until this disease has vacated. This is for your safety, my son." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The boy had nodded, a dejected expression adorning his features. Wilbur and I had then shared a look, and through our look, he informed me that we must keep a particular eye on Tommy, to make certain that he remained indoors.  Oh Journal, I am not looking forward to the next few days, or weeks, or (surely not) months. I can hardly handle remaining in the house during the night, but sharing the house with the loud Tommy (who always had something to say) and the musical Wilbur (who was always playing the harp, albeit badly) all day would crush my spirit. But God willing, this disease would pass soon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know the disease will pass soon. I just know it will. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fatigue consumes me, as I have not slept well in a very long time. I shall sleep now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Until next time, Journal. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oct. 18th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We have been indoors for a week now, and England is slowly descending into chaos. The government has established a mandatory quarantine until further notice. Tommy's been as loud as he has always been, which, I suppose, is relieving. Despite my distaste for his energetic nature, I would never wish sorrow upon him. He has taken up drawing, although he is no better than a toddler. Wilbur is getting better at the harp, his fingers strumming short melodies, invariably taken from his imagination. Usually during the daytime, Wilbur and I would work out back in the cornfields, whilst Tommy was at school. But now, we are slowly falling into the routine of sleeping until preposterous hours, and reading or writing for the rest of the day.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have yet to finish reading The Travels of Marco Polo, but I am almost halfway through. I am enjoying this book thoroughly, and I have even considered beginning to write my own story because of this book. I believe I have a good grasp of modern literature, so I am sure I would write a good tale. Perhaps I would write a heroic tale, one of great adventure and peril. Or perhaps I would write something of romance, a story of great passion and love. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It is currently late at night, but I am not fatigued. For I have been sleeping so much recently that I am unable to sleep anymore. Or maybe it is the growing anxiety that I shall never leave the house again. I miss running through the cornfields and galloping through the plains atop Phil's horse, which he said I would own when I turn eighteen. I miss my favourite tree, Journal, and the branch that never seemed to break no matter how much weight I put on it. I miss the smell of the rain and I miss the way the stalks of corn would softly sway in the afternoon breeze. I miss the reds and oranges and purples that would paint the sky at twilight. We have been indoors for a week now, Journal, and I do not wish to be indoors anymore. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cordial regards,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oct. 23rd </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur left the house today.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was an act of passion and utter insanity. During dinnertime, Tommy kept going on and on about how he missed Tubbo oh so much, and how remaining in the house with us was surely worse than torture. I did not take Tommy's antagonizing words to heart, however. We all were tired of being indoors, and I suppose Tommy has begun to hate it as much as I did in the beginning. I have grown to tolerate the near constant presence of my family, and I have learned to ignore them and tune them out as I read. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I ignored Tommy as he went on his irked rant whilst Phil attempted to calm him (but to no avail). Nonetheless, Tommy kept going on and on about how Wilbur would never stop singing and playing the harp and I was always being so bossy (I am not bossy, Journal, so this is simply untrue), and how he just wanted to go see Tubbo again. Wilbur, exasperated, had told Tommy to "shut up", which began the argument. Tommy then had snapped back, "Well why don't you shut up with your incessant harp! You're not even good at it!" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I watched them argue in silence, as did Phil, because the poor man was too tired to break up the fight. He seemingly had not slept in days, the worry that one of his sons (Tommy especially) would sneak out at night overcoming any passing desire for rest. Looking back at the event as I write, I now realize I should have tried to break apart the argument at least a little bit. I shall apologize to Phil later, if I remember to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My brothers had continuously argued for what seemed to be hours, Journal, although it could not have been any more than five minutes. I wanted to leave the dinner table during the fight, but I did not, for I could not leave Phil by himself in the midst of the toxic argument.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was when Tommy shouted at Wilbur, "Nobody cares about your music, Wilbur!" that Wilbur had abruptly stood, his chair screeching against the floor as he slammed his fists on the table. He had a venomous look as he spat, "I refuse to remain in this house any longer," before attempting a crazed dash to the back door. Phil, alarmed and now wide awake, had yelled for Wilbur to stop, but he was already out the back door and into the cornfields. Phil had then turned around with a fire in his eyes that I had never seen before, snapping at us (mainly Tommy) to, "Stay inside while I go get your brother." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy broke down in tears as soon as Phil was out the door, sobbing to me that he did not mean what he had said, that he was just angry and he did not mean to upset Wilbur so much that he should danger himself by leaving. The poor boy had thrown himself into my arms, and I held him awkwardly, but I did not attempt to push him away.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The two returned one hour later, Phil painfully dragging Wilbur back in by the ear. I had already sent Tommy to bed by the time they came back, and Wilbur was immediately sent to bed as well. I am now in bed, as well, and Phil is sitting in the lounge, refusing to sleep. I am worried about him, Journal. There are bags under his eyelids and he is beginning to look pale. I pray that God will grant him rest soon.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am going to sit with him. I believe it would do him good to have company. Perhaps he will consider resting if I can watch instead of him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Goodnight, Journal. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oct. 31st </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A doctor came to our house today. Wilbur seemed to be fine after his childlike temper tantrum, to Phil, Tommy, and my relief. I do not know what I would do without him in my life, Journal, so I am thankful that he is healthy.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The doctor had a long black robe on, and an intimidating bird-like mask which adorned his face like an angel of death. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and carried with him a long rod, about half his height. At the end of the rod were what seemed to be bird wings, but I did not get a good look, so I was unable to know for sure. The doctor had introduced himself as Dr. Wilcox, and had asked each of us to follow him into a separate room so we could undergo a checkup and make sure none of us were sick. Phil had explained to Dr. Wilcox the events that happened eight days prior, to which he had replied, "So long as your son has not exhibited any symptoms of yersinia pestis, there is no need for isolating him." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur had gone first to do the checkup, then Tommy, then I, then Phil. The checkup required that I undress down to my undergarments, and allow the doctor to examine my skin. I was additionally required to open my mouth wide so he could examine the insides of my mouth and throat. I was hesitant, I did not like being so open and exposed in front of another person whom I did not trust. But the doctor seemed to pick up on my discomfort, and reassured me that it would only be a second, and that if it should go smoothly, the checkup would be finished in only a couple minutes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am not sick, Journal, nor is anyone else in my family sick. I can assure you this with complete certainty, as the doctor said so himself. I am eternally grateful that we all are safe. So long as we all remain indoors and stay as safe as we possibly can, we will be able to get through this in one piece. After the doctor had left, I finally finished reading The Travels of Marco Polo. Wilbur requested I give it to him once I finished it, and so I did. I anticipate his thoughts on the book, and I hope he enjoys it as much as I did. I shall read The Mirror of Simple Souls (written by Marguerite Porete) next. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I hope to soon be able to read this book in my tree, for I would be quite detested if I finish such a sizable book before the disease lifts it's tight grasp on England. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Glowing regards, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 5th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Today was the day everything went wrong. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It all began with the letter that we had received. Well, technically the letter was for Wilbur. It was from Wilbur's friend, whom I only knew as Niki. I had met Niki once, a year or so back when we had her over for dinner. She was a lovely young woman, paying Phil a multitude of compliments during the short conversation they had at the dinner table. Before the plague, Wilbur spent most of time (when he was not required to be working in the cornfields) with her at her house, along with a few of his other friends. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur had opened the letter in his room, leaving us all to go about our usual daily tasks. I had settled myself in the lounge to read, across from Tommy, who was drawing. He has gotten better, I will admit.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> After a few minutes of silence, I had heard a loud cry from Wilbur's room. Phil had us all stay in the lounge as he went to check on him, but he failed to remember to shut Wilbur's door. Tommy and I listened, sharing anxious glances as we heard Wilbur's hiccuped sobs. This did not last for long, though, as Phil had noticed his mistake and closed the door so Wilbur could have privacy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "What do you think happened?" Tommy had inquired whilst he fidgeted with the dull pencil in his hand. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "I am unsure. But we must give them privacy," I ended the short conversation and went back to my reading.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur left his room only once today, and that was for dinner. We ate in silence, and Tommy excused himself early after finishing his meal because he said that he felt tired. Phil allowed this and he left down the hallway. Wilbur, Phil and I dined quietly, the room tense. Oh Journal, if only you could see poor Wilbur's expression. He was miserable. His cheeks were damp, as if he had just finished crying, and his eyes were cloudy and gray. His posture sagged, and usually Phil would scold him for resting his elbows on the table, but no scolding took place. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I was almost finished with my meal when Tommy rushed out of the hallway, clutching a piece of paper with a panicked expression. I immediately recognized it as Wilbur's letter, as did Phil. Tommy spoke quickly and fearful, expressing that he needed to see Tubbo immediately. Wilbur was too weary to shout at Tommy for entering his room and stealing the letter. He simply lied his head in his hands. I had snatched the letter from Tommy, and Phil scolded him for his thievery. It was now that I caught a small glimpse of what the letter said. I am not one to pry into business that is not mine, Journal, but I could not help myself as I read: </em>
</p><p><em> " </em>Dearest Wilbur,</p><p>I deeply regret to inform you that I have fallen gravely ill and I do not have many days left. My own family is fearful for their lives, and I feel lonely as I live these final days out with nobody to hold me. I cannot feel my legs anymore, nor can I feel my arms. I am weak, Wilbur, and I shall die soon.</p><p>I will forever hold close to my heart the years of companionship you gave me. I still remember what you told me when we were 12 years young, whilst sitting in the grass in the schoolyard. Do you remember? You said to me, "I will be your friend for as long as I shall live. When you are on your deathbed, I will be there for you."</p><p>My dearest friend, I am on my deathbed, and although you are not here in person, I feel you here in my heart. Do not feel guilt that you cannot be here to hold my hand as I die, for you were there to hold my hand during the scariest of moments. And that is enough for me. </p><p>I no longer fear death, Wilbur, rather, I am welcoming it with open arms. For when I die, I will be in heaven, and I will no longer be in pain. As I am dying, I make my final promise to watch over you for the rest of your days, until you one day join me in our eternal home. My love for you transcends higher than the heavens, and because of my great love for you, I ask that you do not grieve over me, for that will not do any good for yourself. Instead, fill your days with joy and peace, make friends, get married, and have multitudes of children who will live out their lives in my light.</p><p>Goodbye, my beloved, I pray that God keep you safe from this disease that has so bitterly won against me.</p><p>With immeasurable love,</p><p>Niki.<em> " </em></p><p>
  <em> When I had finished reading the letter, it was quiet again. Wilbur was softly crying at the table, his dinner forgotten and cold, and Phil was scolding Tommy in his room, his stern voice muffled by the door which was shut and locked. I folded up the letter back into thirds and approached the depressed Wilbur, placing it beside him. Wordlessly, I had then left the room.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I pray that Niki is the only loved one that we lose, and that we do not lose anyone else. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 7th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy has fallen ill.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The fool snuck out the night he discovered that Niki was dying, and saw Tubbo. Tubbo is perfectly fine and healthy, but Tommy no longer is. He must have caught the wretched disease whilst walking to Tubbo's home. Dr. Wilcox returned to our house and had Tommy isolate himself as he gave him a treatment. Tommy is now not allowed to leave his room, and none of us are permitted to enter it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phil does not sleep anymore. He spends all of his time sitting outside Tommy's room, reassuring him, and talking to him to remind Tommy that Phil loves him oh so dearly and he will not leave his side, even if he cannot be in the room with him. It is nighttime, and I can hear him telling Tommy a bedtime story from outside my room. It is about a man who once, with his beautiful music, saved the Argonauts from the Sirens. I immediately recognized the tale, the Greek tale of Orpheus, and I noticed how Phil purposefully left out his bittersweet ending.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For context, Journal, in short, Orpheus had gotten married to a beautiful woman named Eurydice, but soon after, she got bitten by a snake and died. So he made the katabasis to the underworld and charmed Hades with his music, asking that he could take Eurydice back to the Land of the Living. Hades had allowed this, but he had told Orpheus that he was forbidden to look back. On his way up from the underworld, Orpheus had seemingly forgotten about the condition, and at the sight of the sun, he looked back at Eurydice to express his joy. It was then that Eurydice disappeared. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phil did not mention Orpheus's sad ending to Tommy. He allowed Tommy to believe that the story had a happy ending. But not all stories have happy endings, Journal.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I wonder if Niki's ending was sad. The circumstances are sad, but she sounded happy in her letter. Perhaps she was concealing her true emotions in order to be strong for Wilbur. God knows he needs it right now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I can hear Wilbur sniffling in his room, and I know Phil can hear it too. But Phil will not leave his spot, back pressed up against Tommy's door. Looking out my doorway, Phil's expression is grim, but he fakes a cheerful tone as he tells Tommy all about Orpheus's adventures. Tommy sometimes replies, asking questions and giving his input (mainly saying things like "I could easily defeat the Sirens, I wouldn't even need a lyre"). Tommy's voice is gravelly and faint, and he sounds to be in pain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am fearful that he will not get better, despite Dr. Wilcox's efforts.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I must go comfort Wilbur, for he has begun to cry once again. I will update on Tommy's condition soon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 8th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It has been a day, and Dr. Wilcox came back to the house. I heard him speaking to Tommy in a hushed tone, telling him to consume all sorts of disgusting things that make me sick to my stomach to even think about. I heard Tommy gagging and he regurgitated, to which Dr. Wilcox scolded Tommy gently, and I felt the need to defend Tommy and argue that Dr. Wilcox not scold him for being incapable of consuming the revolting medicine that he provided. But as I went to enter Tommy's room, Phil stopped me, and told me that I was not to enter.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy does not like Dr. Wilcox. He says he is fearful of him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur has not left his room since the night of November 5th, when he received the letter from Niki. Phil has begun to take Wilbur's dinner to his room, and eat with Wilbur. Having dinner is a lonely affair. Wilbur used to make dinner for us, but he no longer does. We used to sit at the table, as a family, but we no longer do. I miss the days when Wilbur and Tommy would bicker about things that did not matter. I miss my family, Journal. Although I would never say it to their faces, I miss them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am currently at the dinner table, having a meal by myself once again as I write. The only thing that fills the loneliness that festers in the pit of my stomach is reading, pretending that for once, things were normal. I can hear Tommy crying, for the pain he is in is excruciating, he says. I have began to talk to him through his door when Phil is not, because I refuse to let him be alone when he is so miserable. I pray that the medicine Dr. Wilcox has provided will cure him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have not finished reading The Mirror of Simple Souls yet. I fear that I shall finish it before this is all over. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 9th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dr. Wilcox did not come to the house today. Whilst sitting outside Tommy's room, Tommy told me he has begun to bleed from his mouth. I do not know if that means he is dying, but I trust that Dr. Wilcox will not let Tommy die. I heard him speaking quietly to Phil yesterday before he left, and he said, "I promise I will do everything I can to make sure your son lives." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur left his room today, which filled me with indescribable joy. Phil, Wilbur and I all ate dinner at the table, like old times. It felt empty without Tommy, but he was sleeping during dinner anyway. Wilbur and I had an actual conversation, the first words I had spoken to him in two days. We talked about what we think life will be like when this is all over. Wilbur said it would never go back to normal, even after the disease had lifted. And for the first time, I spoke with optimism. It may have been fake optimism, but if nobody would be at least a little positive, I had to be. Yersinia pestis has changed everyone, Journal, even if they have not experienced loss from it. Phil is less talkative, and he has an empty, gray look in his eyes as if he were running on autopilot, and he does not sleep anymore. Wilbur's old, extroverted personality was gone, dead. He does not play his music anymore. Tommy's voice is less confident, and he rarely boasts anymore. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I, Journal, have been forced into the position of the positive one. The Technoblade of two months ago would loathe the Technoblade I am now. It is as if mine and Wilbur's personalities have switched. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I tried to convince Phil to sleep today, and I managed to convince him to take a nap. He is currently sleeping soundly in his bedroom. He will not be pleased that I did not wake him after two hours (which he requested I wake him by), but the poor man looked like a dead man walking, with the bags under his eyelids and pale skin. I am mentally preparing myself for the scolding that will come from him realizing he has slept the entire night. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Before I began this passage, I spoke to Tommy again from outside his bedroom. He says he is very tired and the pain in his stomach is preventing him from sleeping, and he says his fingers have begun to darken in colour and emit a foul smell. I am sure that Dr. Wilcox will be able to fix that, though. I will see if I can have him over to examine it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I shall sit outside Tommy's room now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cordial regards,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 10th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> November the 10th will forever be held in my heart as one of the worst days of my life. For Tommy is dying, Journal, and I cannot do anything to stop it. Dr. Wilcox pulled me aside, and through his daunting black mask, he said, "You must say your goodbyes, Technoblade, for he is living out his last days." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phil has not left Tommy's bedroom door today, at all. He keeps reassuring Tommy that everything would be okay, that he was there and he loved him greatly, but everything would not be okay. For Tommy's condition was worsening rapidly and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Wilbur and I both sat with Phil, but we were silent. Tommy said he knows he is dying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am writing this outside of Tommy's door, and it is mid-afternoon. I can hear Tommy softly crying, whether it be from pain or fear is beyond my knowledge. Phil and Wilbur are sitting beside me but we are not speaking. The tension is high. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I feel a pull in my gut, but I shall not cry. For Tommy needs me to be strong, for him. And I need to be strong, for Phil and Wilbur.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But I am oh so weak, Journal, and I cannot hold up this facade for much longer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 11th, page one </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Today Dr. Wilcox entered Tommy's room and spoke to him for a long time. I do not know about what, for he forbade Phil, Wilbur and I from listening. I do not like how he thinks he can just enter our home and act like he is everyone's superior. But Phil had asked me to respect Dr. Wilcox's orders, so I did. It is now late at night, and he has finally left. After he left, I immediately ran to stand outside Tommy's door and ask what he was speaking to him about for so long. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But Tommy did not answer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I asked again, knocking at the door. I heard the sound of a bucket being hit, which made me relieved to know that he was still alive, but the fact that he was no longer capable of speaking was worrisome. I had told Phil of the interaction, and instead of going to sit outside Tommy's room and reassure him like I assumed he would, he just sighed, shook his head, and retired to his room to sleep. I suppose it is good that he is sleeping, but it only added on to my growing worry. For Phil has been there for Tommy every step of the way, why not now, as he is lying on his deathbed? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I momentarily spoke to Wilbur, asking that he sit outside Tommy's door with me, but he just told me to leave him alone. And so I did. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And in this moment, with just me fighting for Tommy, I now know what I must do. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I will update once I am finished with this foolish plan. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With great sincerity, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 11th, page two </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I pray that the Lord forgive me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For as I stand outside Tommy's bedroom, I know I have committed an atrocious sin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dr. Wilcox gave Phil his address in case of an emergency. And I knew Phil kept the paper with the address on his nightstand. So in an act of passion, I had crept into Phil's room as he slept, stolen the paper, and, if it could not get any worse, I left the house. Yes, I know, Journal, I know that Tommy got sick for doing the exact same stupid act as I have done, but I needed to do this. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Being outside felt different than how I expected it to feel. I assumed everything would have been burned down, the sky would be cloudy and dead, and there would be corpses for as far as the eye could see. But it felt almost...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Normal.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know normal is the incorrect term, as nothing is normal, but it was as if nature had been spared from the disease that currently roamed the cities and mercilessly tore apart homes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had saddled up Phil's horse and rode all the way to Dr. Wilcox's house, which, to my luck, was not far. Once I arrived, in the dead of night, I broke into his house. It had been quite easy, for he did not barricade his door to protect from intruders. Dr. Wilcox's house is small, as he lived alone. There is one lounge, a quaint kitchen, his bedroom, and the bathroom. I figured what I was searching for would be in his bedroom, so I quickly skipped over the other rooms and made my way down the small hallway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anxiety festered in the pit of my stomach as I knew if I were caught, I would be apprehended and I would be tried for thievery and possibly hung. I know I had been putting my life on the line, Journal, but there was no other way I could have done this.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To my luck, the items I had been searching for were hung up right by the bedroom door. Quickly, I had grabbed the long black mask, robe, as well as the gloves that rested on the floor beside the door. As quiet as I could, I left the house, got on Phil's horse, and rode as far and as fast as I could from Dr. Wilcox's house. The feeling of victory after I had successfully committed the crime was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Now I just had to get home. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The ride home had been quick, and I still felt anxious as I rode. I felt as though I would be caught at any moment, so I did not ride on the roads, instead in the dark, forested area beside the road. When I finally got home, I got inside as fast as I could so I would not get sick, and I went straight into my room to get changed into the doctors' robes. The mask was uncomfortable and I could barely see in it, and the robe was itchy, but I did not pay any mind to it. Once finished, I had left my room with a book in my hand. It was titled "Of Arthour and Merlin", the author of which is unknown. I had read the book multiple times, and so I knew Tommy would enjoy the tale. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With great anxiety but greater determination, I opened Tommy's door and entered it. The room was dark, the only light being the crescent moon's silver light that shined through his window on the back wall. I shut the door behind me, taking in the sight.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had felt my heart drop as my eyes met the body of the boy I once knew. His body was frail and weak, and he had been shivering despite having two blankets over him. His arms were so thin, and his fingers were black and decaying. Tommy was curled into the fetal position, and I could tell that he was in great pain due to his soft crying. The smell in the room was awful, a mix between the smell of vomit, gangrene, and blood. There was a metal bucket beside his bed, almost half full with everything that he had puked up from the past few days. The vomit was red. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had been lucky to have the rosemary and thyme fill my smells, which had been stuffed in the beak of the mask to cover the scent, but Tommy had to smell it all.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy did not turn to look at who entered his room. He did not even move. The only way I knew he was still alive had been his persistent shaking. So I moved into his line of vision, now seeing him in his entirety. I stifled a shocked gasp. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His once bright, happy eyes were now dark, empty, and filled with pain. He had black bags under his eyelids, as if he had not slept at all since he got sick. His hair was dirty and greasy, and knotted in arbitrary places. Entire clumps of his hair were torn out and discarded to the point where I could see the dark, bruised skin of his scalp. His eyes slowly moved to look up at me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Tommy," I had breathed, quiet, almost inaudible. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy's eyes widened as he heard my voice, and glistening tears had began to fill his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only noise that came out was a small, raspy, pained, “T-Tech."  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I could see through his tear-filled eyes that he was panicked, and I knew he was scared that I would get sick by being in the same room as him. So I had knelt down beside his bed, and placed a hand on the fabric of it to keep me steady. "I am going to read to you," I had said. And because Tommy had been too weak to object, he just closed his eyes in acceptance. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had sat down on his bed then, and stared at the frail body of my brother, thinking of what to do next. But before I could make a decision, I noticed Tommy's gangrene-infected fingers moving slightly. His eyes were furrowed as pain rushed through his body at the slight movement, but it was clear he wanted to move. "Do you," I had paused, trying to figure out what he was attempting to wordlessly say. Then, I had remembered Niki's letter. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She had said, 'I feel lonely as I live these final days out with nobody to hold me'. Hesitantly, I had asked, "Do you want me to, uh, do you want me to hold you?"  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy's eyes widened and he moved his head slightly in what resembled a nod as he looked at me in desperation. It made sense, as he had not felt human touch ever since he had gotten sick. The entire time he had been poked and prodded by Dr. Wilcox's stick like some kind of animal, to prevent Dr. Wilcox from getting sick by touching him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Um, alright, this is probably going to hurt for a moment," I had set the book down and scooted closer to Tommy. I hesitated when my hands neared his body, worried that even the slightest touch would break his delicate bones. Nevertheless, and as quickly as I could so I would not prolong any unnecessary pain, I wrapped my arms around his body and pulled him closer to me. Tommy let out a near silent cry of pain, and tears rushed down his cheeks, but as soon as he was settled, he seemed to feel better. With the sleeve of the cloak, I wiped Tommy's damp cheeks as gently as I possibly could. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tommy's body relaxed close to mine, so close that I could hear his fragile and shaky breathing. His head was on my lap as I settled myself on his bed, and hesitantly, I rested my hand on his shoulder. That didn't seem to evoke any pain from him, so we stayed in that position. I moved my other hand to grab the book which I had placed aside. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "This book is titled "Of Arthour and Merlin"," I began. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I spent the entire night reading to him, even after he had fallen asleep. I read, and I read, and I read, and during the night I noticed he woke multiple times, but he was always lulled back to sleep at the sound of my voice. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And as the sun peaked its way over the horizon, basking Tommy's room in its golden glow, I knew Tommy was not in pain anymore. He was finally at peace. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 12th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This morning Phil discovered Tommy's body, which I had not removed from my lap, and he wept. He wept for his son, who he did not get to say goodbye to. He wept for the tragic events that had happened. He wept loudly, and had woken up Wilbur, who, upon seeing the body of his brother, fell to his knees and wept with Phil. The anguish and grief in their voices could be heard from a thousand miles away.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I did not weep, for I could not feel anything in that moment. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Wilbur had sat down on the bed and removed the cold body of Tommy from my lap, pulling him up and hugging Tommy to his chest as he heaved in a wrecked sob. Phil sat beside Wilbur, tears dampening his cheeks as he held Tommy's black and decayed hand.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I was glad I was still wearing the doctors' mask, for I did not want to be questioned for my unemotional expression. I knew one was supposed to cry when someone they care for dies. But no tears came. All I felt was frustration that I could not cry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I did not weep, Journal, and that surely makes me an evil, immoral brother. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -Technoblade  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 13th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phil told me today that I should write my feelings down in this book. But I will be honest with you, Journal, the only feeling I am experiencing is guilt, for I ought to be depressed for my brother's death, but I feel nothing but indifference. However, Dr. Wilcox came to the house today one last time to give his condolences. This was the first time I looked at him without his mask on, for I had stolen the mask and I had not returned it yet. Dr. Wilcox was an attractive young lad, but not without flaws, for he was missing an eye.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I did not return the doctors' cloak and mask, as I was still fearful for my life if he decided that he should have me hung for my crimes. Phil and Wilbur, to my luck, did not admit that I was wearing the outfit just a day earlier. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The entire time Dr. Wilcox was at the house, I felt a bitterness residing in me. This was his fault anyway, Journal. He does not have the right to call himself a doctor, for he could not cure even a young boy.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dr. Wilcox spoke with Phil about Tommy's final wishes, which was what he had spoken to Tommy about a few days prior. Tommy's final wish stated that we ought not to grieve over his passing, but celebrate that he is no longer suffering. Phil agreed to the simple terms, and bid Dr. Wilcox a warm farewell, thanking him for his services. Phil then sought out a cemetery to bury him in, for his slowly decaying body remained in his room. But the cemeteries are all full, for this wretched illness has taken the lives of far too many. So he spoke to Wilbur and I, and we agreed that he should be cremated and we should have his ashes buried in the forest behind us, under the tree which Tommy and Tubbo used to climb and pretend they were pirates. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There was much to do because of his passing, but we all, as a family, agreed that we would deal with it tomorrow. Tonight we ate our dinner in Tommy's room, which smelled awful, but we did it anyway as we knew this would be our final dinner together. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 14th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Today Phil took Tommy's body to be cremated, and as soon as he left on his horse, Wilbur began to cry once more. I quickly hushed him, as we were to honour Tommy's final wish and not grieve. Besides, we had much work to do and it would never get done if Wilbur spent the whole day crying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> First, Wilbur and I worked on cleaning out Tommy's room and burning the items which he had touched, which very likely had some of the virus on them. This included his sheets, blankets, pillows, and clothing. I had dumped out the bucket of his vomit and almost vomited in the process, but luckily I did not. We continued our cleaning and by the time Phil returned home, holding a clay jar with Tommy in it, his room was as good as new and no longer smelled of death. Earlier in the day, I had also walked to Tubbo's house and informed the still healthy boy of Tommy's passing. I left the boy's house hearing wails and sobs as his poor mother tried to comfort her grieving son. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That night, we (Phil, Wilbur, and I) stood outside, each of us holding a small bowl of Tommy. Wilbur had dug the hole underneath the tree earlier. Everything was prepared, everything was ready. But as we stood underneath the tree, the moon glimmering in the sky, none of us were ready to say goodbye. I could hear crickets chirping, and the quiet whinny of Phil's horse, and the rustling of bushes from the animals that were moving about in the night. The air was cold, crisp, and I was shivering lightly, for I had not put a jacket on before we had left on the trek to Tommy's tree. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Phil looked to us both, and he had heaved a heavy sigh. "Come, my dear sons, it is time that we bury him," He had said quietly. He then stepped forward, gently depositing the ashes into the hole in front of us. He held the bowl so gently, as if he would break it if he held it with even an ounce of force. I had looked to Wilbur, who refused to move. His hands shook lightly as he bit back tears, staring into the bowl of his once alive brother.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Wil," Phil had spoken quietly, placing his hand on his son's shoulder comfortingly. His head snapped up, realizing that he was about to cry, and he wiped his tears quickly, shaking his head as if he were shaking away a thought. Phil smiled sadly, but encouragingly, and Wilbur walked up to the tree. He let out a shaky sigh, and poured the remains of Tommy into the hole to join the other third of him. This now had left me, who was holding my bowl firmly. It was quite the juxtaposition of Phil and I, as he feared he would break the bowl so he held it gently, but I feared I would drop the bowl so I held it tightly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had finally taken a short step forward, hesitating, looking down at the hole that was painted in brown and an unnatural gray from the remains of Tommy. Slowly, I crouched down in front of the hole, and tilted the bowl so the ashes poured out and joined the rest of the body. Wilbur was sniffling behind me, now unable to prevent his sobs, and I had turned my head to see that Phil was hugging his son close as he wept. I had taken it upon myself to finish burying the ashes, grabbing the shovel nearby and pushing the dirt next to the hole back in. After a couple minutes of burying and smoothing out the dirt, I took a step back, joining Wilbur and Phil again.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We stayed there for a while, until Wilbur had fallen asleep in Phil's arms. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nov. 20th </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had visited Tommy's tree every night after we had buried him. I did it in secret, in the dark depths of the moon's shadow, for Phil had strictly forbade us from leaving the house so as to prevent us from falling ill. But if I were to fall ill, I would accept my fate with open arms. For I would see Tommy again, and I would be happy.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The night Tommy had died, I read to him Of Arthour and Merlin, but I failed to finish reading the book to him. So every night since his burial I visited him, and I read to him. And although he could not hear me in person, I hoped that his spirit listened joyfully as he got to hear the adventures of King Arthur and the young child Merlin. Every night, I read to him the pages that he never got to hear. I lost a piece of my soul that night, Journal, and I do not believe I shall ever gain it back. But I can, however, read by his grave and pray to God that Tommy can hear me.</em>
</p><p><em> "' </em> The Justice sent for his mother straight away, and she came in person immediately. ‘You!’ said the Justice, ‘You rascal! Are you brave and courageous enough now to speak the words you said about this woman! Speak, if you know how! <em> ’" I read aloud. I was sitting beside the grave (which had a small green ribbon sticking out, for Tubbo had requested I bury it with him), the glow of the moon casting just enough light to see through the branches of the tree. </em></p><p><em> "' </em> Then young Merlin said ‘Sir Justice, your words are unwise, if I am to tell how you were conceived and born in front of everyone, then it will be broadcast all around and you will lose everyone’s respect. <em> ’" I continued. I felt a small breeze blow by, and I could almost hear Tommy chuckling at the stupidity of the Justice's actions. If he were alive, he would chuckle. If he were alive, he would say, "The Justice is surely an immature, childish man for sending for his own mother to back his argument." </em></p><p>
  <em> Sometimes, when I read besides Tommy's grave, I could almost feel him. I could almost feel his head resting in my lap, like it was the night he died. It was as if as I read, he lied down next to me, and placed his head on my lap. But I knew this thought was absurd, so I did not attempt to chase it. </em>
</p><p><em> "' </em> By Our Lord! Lady, if you have forgotten how your son - who stands here - was conceived, I can remind you of the whole story: how and where and when it happened. If you cannot remember it, then I will tell you everything I know, so that you will be sorely ashamed. Lady, you would be better to say no more <em> . </em> ’ The Lady then lied to him and Merlin presented his story to everyone. <em> '" The night was quiet, the only noise being my voice, which was quiet as to not disturb any sleeping creatures nearby. </em></p><p>
  <em> I had continued reading for an hour, and to my dismay, the book had only two pages left. I did not wish to read the pages, Journal, but I knew Tommy would want to hear how the story ended. A short gust of wind blew, as if Tommy was telling me to hurry up and read the rest of the story. So, with a heavy sigh, I continued to read. </em>
</p><p><em> "' </em> The following day, the company arrive at a churchyard where they meet a funeral procession. Again Merlin stops and laughs, explaining that the priest is the father of the dead child and therefore should be weeping not singing, whereas the child’s father should sing and not weep, as the dead child is not his own. When questioned, the mother affirms Merlin’s story, pleading with them not to betray her. <em> '" I had read. I turned the page, and I could hear the quiet, near-silent rustling of the paper as I turned it. </em></p><p><em> "' </em>As they go on their way, Merlin laughs for a third time and explains that in the king’s court, a woman poses as his chamberlain and because of her beauty she has won the love of the queen who thought she was a man. When the queen asked the chamberlain to be her lover she declined saying that she would never commit treason. Angry, the queen has gone to her husband and accused the chamberlain of trying to force himself on her. The king is furious and wants to hang and draw the chamberlain. Merlin asks them to ride ahead and explain the situation to the king.</p><p>The messenger rides ahead and tells Fortiger of Merlin, how he is five years old and very wise and how he can tell of past, present and much of the future. He tells Fortiger that Merlin will reveal to him why his castle will not stand and also that it would be wrong to kill his chamberlain, who is a woman wearing men’s clothes. This is found to be true and the king asks the messenger who told him his chamberlain was a woman. The messenger tells the king about child Merlin and how he was begotten and born.<em> '" </em></p><p>
  <em> My voice faltered as my eyes glanced over the page. There were two sentences left. I felt a feeling unlike any I've ever felt fester in the pit of my stomach. It was as if the entire world began to drain in colour. It was as if I no longer had a voice. It was as if time just...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Stopped. </em>
</p><p><em> "' </em> Fortiger rides out in the night with his company to meet Merlin, greeting him graciously.' <em> " I read, slowly, reluctantly, so quiet it was barely audible.  </em></p><p><em> "' </em> They stay in the castle that night. <em> '" </em></p><p>
  <em> As I read the final lines of the book, I hesitated, then I slowly closed it, and placed the book at the base of the tree. And finally, after nine days of watching everyone else cry, after nine days of guilt because I could not find the emotions to grieve over the death of my own brother, after nine days of indifference, </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> I wept. </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not me projecting my emotional disconnection to death and tragic events onto Technoblade</p><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE<br/>A portion of the text under the date of November 20th is directly taken from the book titled, "Of Arthour and Merlin", whose author is unknown. I don't wish to take credit for the writing, so if you would like to read it, that is the book title.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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